Re-Velveteened

Oh, My Friggin’ Christ.

I think I’m losing touch with reality. Or, more specifically, bourgeois reality. But then, even having to clarify something as basic as reality reassures me I’m only further experiencing my own reality – which, contrary to popular belief – isn’t bourgeois. So I guess all I meant to say when I introduced this entry via, “I think I’m losing touch with reality” was, “I’m obviously having another wrestling match with bourgeois reality.” There. That’s more like it. Hope you get what I mean.

‘Cuz I mean it anyway – I’m losing touch with reality! Again! See, that’s the thing about life in the Velveteen Rabbit zone. It’s not like the moral would have you think. It’s not enough to get real just once. In order to keep being real, you have to keep getting real… Again, again, and again… ad infinitum…

Tell me, please: Am I real?

I’d like to believe so. I’d like to believe I did my homework, way back in San Francisco in 1992. But that was over a decade ago, and, well, here in New York – on the verge of 2006 – I’m getting a liitle impatient. I’m impatient for some Return On Investment. I’m lookin’ for that ROI. I’m waitin’ for the payoff for bein’ real.

But so far, the only payoff for bein’ real I’ve experienced is more reality. Of my sort, that is… Which ISN’T the sort I started this passage off talkin’ about. Argh!

One friend told me to re-visit Death in Venice. I’m sure that’s worthy advice, but I’ve just finished revisiting SlaughterHouse 5, Siddartha, and Steppenwolf, so I think I’m covered as far as the eternal artist’s struggle against the bourgeois sensibilty goes… At this point, I’m just wondering how I’m ever going to contribute my own slice to that pie?

Anyway, I’ll pick up a copy of Death... Just to be sure.

But this business of being “informed so that one might create deeper literature” – I’ve gotta tell you, it’s what’s got me in a stand-still. It started with Grad School in Theatre way back in ’94… Learnin’ ‘bout my craft just sucked the wind right outta my sails. THAT, if truth be told, is the real reason I don’t pursue Theatre again. Or writing, or performing, or anything literary.

We got us a bit of a problem. We got us a writer who doesn’t wanna write – much less read or perform. UGH.

And I don’t know where to begin, when it comes to analyzing that problem. When it comes to breaking it down and recognizing the reasons why I’ve chosen to remain stagnant within the realm of “just getting by” and failed to continue to follow my artistic path. No, I might not know where to begin. But I do know which clues to drop…

Take, for instance, the observations I’ve accumulated from my functioning-alcoholic parents and their approach to life. I’ve come to emulate them almost down to the wire. Sometime during my 30s, a voice went off inside my head. It said, “Hey: You’re not getting any younger! Isn’t about time you started that drinking habit?” And so I did. As my Irish Catholic cheeks began to lose their blush of youth, I made damned sure it was replaced by the blush of blossoming (functioning) alcoholism.

Martini, anyone?

And then there’s the eternal obsession with “the steady paycheck.” Just how many of you have I bored to tears in recent years with my litanies of chasing profit? I’m sorry.

Real estate. Long distance telephone services. Gym memberships. Advertising. And then real estate again. And soon, perhaps, more advertising! When will these distractions cease to be distractions? I’ll tell you when they’ll stop: WHEN I HAVE SOME SUITABLE MEANS OF INCOME TO REPLACE THEM.

It’s the eternal artist’s paradox. You work because you have to pay your rent and bills. The time and energy you spend working takes away from your ability to produce your next work, which could hypothetically (finally!) land you in a position of being able to support yourself by your “work.” The awareness of this sick situatation renders you less than fully capable of performing your “work,” which triggers an ugly cycle vacillating between your potential self-satisfaction (in that you’re able to support yourself through working) dissipating into your self-loathing (in that you’re unable to support your “work”).

And I’m stuck thick in the middle of that paradox, here, in NYC – one of America’s most expensive cities.

But I’m gonna battle the paradox, through and through. I always have. I don’t care if it looks as though I’ve bounced from one fiscal failure to another. Those fiscal failures all supported me for a while, and got me to this point, which is here – now.

If I’m still alive and questioning then there’s still hope.

How’s this for a dose of reality: Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been too preoccupied with JUST GETTING BY to allow myself the luxury of pursuing higher goals? Perhaps, just perhaps, I’ve been trapping myself in a cycle of perpetual (REQUISITE) bohemianism by not allowing myself to assume some of my upper middle class white privilege. In other words, maybe a professional job and salary might pave the way for me to consider taking future artisitc risks. Lord knows not having any money certainly has prevented me from taking any. Even though I’ve had the time to pursue an artisitc lifestyle, I haven’t had the money. After all, even a bohemian career requires some start-up capital.

So don’t hate me if I tell you in my next post that I’ve just become a Mortgage Broker. I hear the money’s killer in that field.